Telepathic owl, Aubrey thinks.
He stretches out his hand.
The owl’s expression comes from the deep gaze of dark eyes, set in double circles of delicate feathers. It makes the owl look like a little professor. But the words Aubrey heard were gentle and encouraging, so he dares.
He strokes the owl’s head. The plumage is warm, the feathers rounded tight together. The owl rolls its head against the palm of his hand like a cat.
‘You read my mind,’ Aubrey whispers.
‘Assuredly!’ the owl replies, in his thoughts. ‘All animals and birds do likewise, insects too. Fish are the exception because thoughts cannot pass through water. Once you fish them out they can hear what you have in mind – though it tends to be pretty obvious by then.’
‘Poor fish!’
‘Oh they have a marvellous time when they’re not being eaten,’ says the owl. ‘I promise you, fish have a tremendously entertaining existence compared to most organisms. They spend half their lives in fits of giggles. Are you ready? You might need your dressing gown. And slippers.’
‘Ready for what?’
‘Night Venturing?’
‘Hang on!’ Aubrey hisses. ‘I don’t know what sort of dream this is, telepathic owls and giggling fish, but I like to go Night Venturing from my bed and in my head, so…’
At this point our whole story hangs in the balance. Aubrey even takes hold of the curtains: he is about to shut them on this unlikely and demanding bird and go back to bed. He hesitates.
The owl opens his dark eyes amazingly wide and hoots.
‘HOO! You’re dreaming, are you? Then I must be too! Are you by any chance dreaming about an owl who is dreaming about a boy who is dreaming about an owl who wants to help a boy who wants to help his father who is in all sorts of trouble? You are? WOO! So you are the boy, I am the owl – or is it the other way round?’ (The owl looks confused for a second.) ‘Anyway, I am in your dream, you are in mine, and that, my rambunctious friend, is what we in the business call LIFE! My name is Augustus, by the way – Augustus Howell-Brown Bachelor of Arts Master of Arts Master of Philosophy Doctor of Philosophy milk no sugar if only we had time for tea. Augustus for short. What a pleasure to meet you. Shall we go?’
Aubrey sways, smiling.
‘How do you know me, Augustus?’
‘We creatures have learned to listen to humans carefully. We have to. Thanks to your Night Venturing the whole wood knows you. And we like you, and your wonderful mother, and poor Jim. So – dressing gown – slippers – yallah!’
Augustus gives Aubrey a huge, encouraging blink.
FOOTNOTE: Oh-ho, you may be thinking, a story with talking animals in it. How anthropomorphic. Anthropomorphic is a beautiful word, from the Greek words anthropos (human) and morphe (shape). It means making animals look and sound like people. And not just animals – it could be gods, clouds, cars (like Liebling Trudi) – anything you please.
However, as you will see, the philosophy of this story is closer to animism. Animism is one of our oldest ideas. Animism says that humans are not the centre of the universe, because everything in nature has a soul or a spirit, and that plants and rivers and owls have their own existences in the same way you do. (This is why you sometimes overhear people like Suzanne saying things like ‘Hello, woodpigeon!’)
CHAPTER 6
Unkillable Monster, Impossible Quest
‘Was that a spell?’ Aubrey asks.
‘No-o!’ Augustus hoots, ‘That was “Let’s go!” in Arabic.’
‘Show-off!’
‘My choice of habitation happens to be a British wood,’ Augustus says, with dignity. ‘It does not mean I am stuck in the mud.’
They are walking through the wood. Aubrey has on his dressing gown and slippers. Augustus sits on his shoulder. Because Augustus is able to see their path between the stumps and roots a hundred times more clearly than Aubrey can, the owl directs the boy right or left.
‘Augustus, you won’t fly off and leave me, will you?’
‘You would be discomforted to find yourself all alone in the Great Wood in the middle of the night in total darkness, in dressing gown and slippers, when no one knows you are out here, and you are unsure of the way back?’
‘I could find my way back!’ Aubrey whispers. (The darkness and the presence of the great trees make him want to whisper.)
‘Good lad,’ Augustus replies, and Aubrey can hear an owlish smile in the words, as they form in his head. ‘Don’t worry. You are as safe in this wood as you are in your own bed, more or less.’
‘I like the “more”,’ Aubrey mutters.
He knows the leaves have turned to all the colours of a slow fire, he can smell a lot of them, but most have not yet fallen, so under the canopy the night is deeply dark. Occasionally he glimpses the crescent moon high up. He can only make out the vaguest outlines of the individual trees. They seem to stand all around him like the legs of huge beasts.
‘Turn right up here,’ Augustus tells him.
‘We follow this path to the top. Do you know where you are?’
‘Roughly…’
‘There’s a clearing at the top of this bank, between an oak tree, an ash tree and a beech tree. It’s a meeting place.’
‘Are we meeting someone?’
‘You were thinking about wisdom, I believe.’
‘Yes,’ Aubrey puffs, as he stumbles up the path. It is quite steep. ‘And here you are, Augustus! Wisely riding on my shoulder, hitching a lift home, saving yourself the effort of walking, or flying…’
‘Oh,’ Augustus says, ‘I’m just a messenger really. The wise one is waiting at the top.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘She is Athene Noctua. Whom I believe you were hoping to meet?’
‘The goddess Athene! She’s come all the way from Greece?’
‘Not the woman!’ Augustus laughs. ‘Athene Noctua – the owl!’
‘An owl, like you?’
Aubrey makes sure he doesn’t sound disappointed. Augustus is a very fine owl, after all.
‘An owl,’ Augustus confirms, ‘but not like me. I am a Tawny Owl, Strix aluco. One does not wish to be immodest, but the plain fact is, in the lottery of life I am extremely fortunate. But Athene Noctua! She is … well, she is another order of fowl altogether. Companion of Pallas Athene herself! It’s not so much a question of respect as due reverence.’
‘Right. Phee-ew!’ blows Aubrey, as the steep path tops the bank and the trees drop back, and there is the clearing, soft and dim as a dream within a dream in the moonlight.
‘I will leave you here,’ Augustus says, softly. ‘Don’t worry, Athene will look after you.’
Before Aubrey can say anything there is a single beat of silent wings and Augustus vanishes into the dark.
Aubrey stands alone on the edge of the clearing. When an owl says it’s not going to leave you… Aubrey thinks – or did he actually say that?
‘Welcome!’ says a voice, which seems to come from below his right knee. Aubrey jumps like a rabbit.
Athene Noctua is perched on an anthill.
The anthill is two feet high. Athene Noctua is not much taller than a coffee mug. She really is a tiny owl, but her bright yellow eyes are huge.
‘Do sit!’
Her voice is snappy and quick but not unfriendly.
‘Don’t worry, the ants are all asleep. You won’t be stung.’
‘We’re not all asleep,’ pipes a tiny voice from the hill, quite distinctly. ‘Some of us are trying to sleep.’
Athene Noctua laughs. Aubrey sits. I’m dreaming, the boy thinks, but it’s a good one!
‘So. You are Aubrey Rambunctious Wolf.’
‘I’m who?’
‘It’s your Wild Name. It’s how we think of you. And your father is in the grip of the Terrible Yoot, and you want to help.’
‘The Terrible what?’
‘The YOOT. Think of it as a monster which can’t be killed.’
Aubrey
feels fear, something like his father’s hairy worm, small but definitely there, stirring in his stomach.
‘Can’t be killed?’ he repeats.
In every myth and legend, every story he has ever read, the monster can always be killed, somehow.
Athene Noctua stares hard at him. ‘You can fight the Yoot,’ she says. ‘You can run away from the Yoot, you can try hiding from the Yoot, you can negotiate with the Yoot – people have been known to befriend it, too – but you cannot kill it.’
‘Why is it picking on my dad?’
‘Your father is unlucky. He is not alone – the Yoot picks on most people – but some people, about one person in every ten, are more vulnerable than others. The majority are women, and it’s getting to more people every year. More children too.’
Aubrey now feels very angry. Whoever or whatever this thing is, someone needs to stand up to it!
‘How can I beat this Yoot?’ he demands. Athene Noctua hops closer to Aubrey. The bird’s huge yellow eyes glare up at his and do not blink. Meeting her gaze is like staring into swirls of antique power. These dark pupils in their blazing irises have watched the shaping and changing of the world. The boy is almost hypnotised. ‘Don’t blink,’ he tells himself, not knowing quite why. Suddenly the owl’s pupils dilate, the black holes widening, and Athene Noctua smiles.
‘Understand this,’ she says. ‘You are undertaking a quest with only one certainty: you cannot simply succeed. The Yoot will still be there at the end. You may help your father but you might not. You may put yourself in great danger. There is every chance that forgetting the Yoot – and me, and Augustus – and going back to your normal life will have exactly the same result: your father will get better, slowly, or he will stay the same, or he will get worse. Tell me you understand.’
FOOTNOTE: An owl’s smile is felt, not seen. The birds smile by sending out a warm pulse of friendship. It’s difficult to explain but impossible to mistake when you feel it. The next time you hear an owl, send it a mental message of friendship and I guarantee you’ll get one back. No owl ever fails to respond.
‘I understand,’ says Aubrey. But he thinks, this Yoot is not going to get away as easily as that…
Athene Noctua continues: ‘The best thing might be for the doctors to give him some pills to help put the Yoot out of his mind. Your assistance, however determined and rambunctious, may not be what he needs.’
Aubrey thinks for a moment, then he leans forward too, so that his nose is only a few centimetres from Athene’s beak.
‘Athene,’ Aubrey says, very clearly, ‘tell me where I can find this thing which goes around terrorising one person in ten and picks on women and children and which is getting stronger every year and which is attacking my father every day and every night. I’m going to give it a battle it will never forget. By the time I’ve finished, this Yoot is going to be begging me for its head!’
Athene Noctua’s eyes blaze gold and she cries ‘Keeey-WIICK!’
‘I knew it!’ she laughs, ‘That is exactly what Perseus said when I warned him about the Medusa. So. You don’t just go charging off at the Yoot. Practice and preparation first.’
‘What – like those bits in films where the hero goes running and does press-ups?’ Aubrey says, disappointed. ‘Really?’
‘Not you,’ Athene snaps, ‘your father. To have any chance against the Yoot we’ll need to build Jim up. Your mother is quite right, of course – he needs sleep, food, especially oily fish, rest, exercise, practical work (like gardening) and lots of positive thinking.’
‘But he’s been resting and eating and it’s not working!’ Aubrey objects, ‘He’s getting worse!’
‘Just because it hasn’t worked yet does not mean it won’t,’ Athene says, gently. ‘And besides, you haven’t had our help before.’
‘Whose help?’
‘We, the Creatures,’ Athene Noctua says, simply. ‘How quickly you humans forget where you come from, and who your best friends are. Have you ever seen people and animals working together?’
Aubrey thinks.
‘Sheepdogs?’
‘Exactly,’ says Athene. ‘In this case, Jim is the sheep.’
CHAPTER 7
Surprising Events at Woodside Terrace
On an October day in the half-term holiday when the sun was warm and the air so clear that every leaf and blade of grass seemed to tremble in the beauty of its being, and you could see spider webs shining like threads of spun light, Mr Ferraby was looking out of the window at his garden. It ran up the hill to the edge of the wood. Mr Ferraby was thinking how lovely it was to be alive on such a perfect autumn morning when his eye caught a movement at the edge of the wood.
Aubrey was standing there talking to a fence post. Well, thought Mr Ferraby, he is an unusual child.
Then the top of the fence post moved. Mr Ferraby reached for his glasses. He put them on and looked again. Ah! There was a squirrel at the top of the post. Huh? Aubrey appeared to be in conversation with it.
Mr Ferraby watched for some time. He could see Aubrey’s mouth moving as he talked to the creature. He could see the squirrel’s tail switching, and its head bobbing, as if it understood what the boy was saying. There were also long pauses, in which Aubrey seemed to listen and the squirrel twitched, jumped and ducked about on the top of the post. Then the squirrel bobbed and disappeared.
‘I just saw Aubrey talking to a squirrel,’ Mr Ferraby told his wife. ‘Funny thing. It was as though the squirrel was talking back.’
Mrs Ferraby raised her eyebrows. She did not look convinced.
Athene had not told Aubrey where or when the Creatures would contact him. All she said was, ‘Don’t get stuck indoors. Someone will find you.’
So that morning Aubrey went out and wondered if the bees would talk to him, or if the buzzard turning circles above the trees had something to say. But the bees just buzzed and the buzzard soared away.
He said ‘Hello!’ to a frog in the pond. The frog looked startled and ducked under water. Aubrey was feeling a bit foolish when there was a burst of movement in the bushes like a small explosion. With a scrabble of claws a grey squirrel raced up the fence and stopped on top of the post, flicking her beautiful tail.
‘Whoa! Hello, Squirrel,’ said Aubrey, surprised that Athene should have sent someone who looked so young and playful to help him battle the Terrible Yoot.
‘Hey Bree! I’m Hoppy. How’s it? You look stressed. What’s up?’
‘I…’
‘Have a sad Dad? I know! And – what?’
‘Well…’
‘How can I help you help him help himself, right? So, how can I?’
Hoppy was giving him such a toothy grin it was difficult not to smile.
‘I don’t know,’ Aubrey said. ‘How can you?’
‘Do I look happy, Bree?’
‘Yes! You do look hoppy, Happy. I mean the other way round. I’ve never seen a squirrel look sad. Why is that?’
‘Secret,’ Hoppy said, peeling a bit of bark off the post and flicking it at him. ‘Bad stuff can happen to squirrels, same as anyone – airguns, hate them, cars, hate them, goshawks – brrr! We get cold, wet, ill, all that, but we basically stay happy. Amazing!’
‘How do you do it?’
‘Oh, Bree! It’s so easy! Listen, you’ve never run up a tree really fast, have you? But you must have climbed them. Best feeling in the world, right? And when we learn to climb we also learn to fall. That’s a biggie. Go away gravity, go away planet – that really doesn’t work when you’re plunging towards it face first. Point is, you’re not trying to fend the ground off! You’re trying to make friends with it at speed. So you go very floppy and you roll like hell, that’s the trick. And you laugh. Once you can fall and climb, which is easy when you’ve got these babies.’ (The squirrel flourished her right paw, and its small sharp claws.) ‘Then you can start sprinting on air. And fly-jumping!’
As she spoke Hoppy acted out what she was describing, jumping on the spot
, going floppy, and now, tensing like a small cannonball.
‘What you do is, you gather yourself up, tense your muscles – say you’re about thirty feet up – and you just fill your eyes with all the trees and leaves and branches ahead of you, and you sort of pick an aiming point – like a good oak or big pine that sticks up and you say to yourself, I am going to get there SO fast – and you take three deep breaths, and you count, one, two, three, GO!’
Hoppy leapt into the air and came back down on top of the post.
‘You take off like a goshawk is after you and you rip along the first branch and when it runs out you fling yourself at the next one and hurl yourself off that and then you hit whatever you can catch and the idea is to go faster all the time and sometimes you just run out of tree and you shriek! Because you’re in terror and you’re laughing too and Wheeee! You jump then like you wouldn’t believe, you really LEAP! And you have to think I’ve got Flying Squirrel in me! I’m a jet! And you stick your tail way out and use it like a kind of wing, it balances you, and you steer with it too and now all the leaves and twigs are just blurring past you, that’s what we call the Green Rush. And then – then you get into this kind of rhythm, like you are the air, you are the forest, you’re going so quick you’d make a goshawk sick, and suddenly you can see all the branches and the little whippy twigs you can use, and you seem to know your moves before you can think of them, and you skid through the trees like a bat! Like a lightning bat! Only with more scrabbling! Suddenly you’re on that big old oak or pine or whatever you were aiming for. YES! I hold the record! No one ever got here quicker. Then maybe you tell your friends and they have a go. And if you can do that pretty well any day of the week it’s hard to be unhappy at all. Not really. Even when you come to die you just close your eyes, the old squirrels say, and go back to the Green Rush.’
Aubrey and the Terrible Yoot Page 3